


Howl

by gloria_scott



Category: Fairy Tales and Related Fandoms
Genre: Diary/Journal, Gen, Misses Clause Challenge, Werewolves, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 19:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloria_scott/pseuds/gloria_scott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little Red Riding Hood’s journal contains a much different account of her meeting with the wolf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Howl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crumblingwalls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crumblingwalls/gifts).



_November 1, 18--_

I was haunted by the foulest dreams again last night.

I was running through the forest at night, the cold air pricking my skin like icy needles. My feet were bare and sank into the loam as I ran and, looking down, I realized I was clad in only my nightclothes. I hadn’t time to wonder why I left the house in such a state, for there were beasts giving me chase. I know not what they were for I never saw them, but I could feel their eyes upon me and I knew that they were hard by. I also knew with utter certainty that I would not reach the safety of home before they were upon me.

I woke in a cold sweat with my chest heaving like a bellows. Rarely have I been so glad to see the early morning light seeping through the window curtains.

This same dream has plagued me for three nights now. I have hesitated to write about it for fear that my mother may discover this journal. Should she read the account of events as I am about to relate them, it would catch me out in a bold-faced lie. I would prefer to spare her the disappointment, and myself the unpleasant consequences, of that eventuality.

I suppose it isn’t all that surprising, given what happened three days ago. If a few bad dreams are the worst to come of it, I shall consider myself lucky. The day started out like any other Thursday. I was late in waking as usual, for I have never been fond of mornings.  It was only my mother’s increasingly exasperated cries of, “Rosalind! Get out of bed this instant!” that finally roused me.

The morning was spent on drudgery and chores, and by afternoon I was itching to get out of the house. Mother must have sensed my restlessness for she put aside her mending to pack up a basket, and then called me to her.

“Here,” she said, handing me the basket and pressing a few coins into my palm. “Take these mince pies to your grandmother. And stop by the market on the way to get her some turnips and greens.”

“I could wait until you’re finished and we could go together,” I offered. Gran always complained about mother never coming herself to visit.

She just gave me a tired smile and shook her head. “Perhaps next time.”

Even with my (sometimes grudging) help, mother rarely seems to have enough time in the day to do everything. She’s just too busy with the washing and mending and other odd jobs that she takes in to keep us both fed. So mind-numbingly boring!  I hope to find some better way to keep myself when it comes time to seek my own fortune in the world.

I gave her a kiss and skipped out the door and down the road towards the village square.

I’ll admit that at least part of the reason I was so eager to go was that it was the first occasion I’d had to show off my birthday present. Gran made me the most stunning riding cape out of dark red wool. It was so warm that I barely felt the chill of the late autumn wind anywhere but on my legs. And I made quite an impression among the usually dour-vested patrons of the market, if I do say so, although I certainly hope the new moniker they have chosen for me does not stick. Little Red Riding Hood indeed! I am not so little anymore, and Rosalind will do just fine, thank you.

I lingered in the market probably longer than I should have, and was just about to leave when I saw there was a new seller tucked away among the stalls near the end of the row. The proprietress was very friendly and beckoned me over to see her wares when she caught me staring. I could hardly help myself, for she cut a rather striking figure: tall and lithe, with thick silver hair and sharp, dark eyes. Her olive skin was smooth except where it creased around her lips and eyes when she smiled. There was something slightly off about that smile, though I could not put my finger upon what triggered my disquiet. 

Among her wares were herbs and fruits the likes of which I had never seen before. When I approached she selected one of the fruits – a cheerful orange thing about the size of a large plum. She produced a sharp knife and cut it cleanly in half, offering it to me to try. I took a tentative bite and found that it tasted rather like a plum mixed with sweet dates, though the texture was quite odd. She laughed at what must have been a comical expression of surprise on my face.

“Persimmons,” she answered in response to my unspoken question. “Known as the fruit of the gods by some.”

She placed a few into my hands. “Here,” she said, “take some home with you.”

“But I haven’t any money for them,” I protested.

“Never mind,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Pay me next time.”

I wasn’t certain that was such a good idea; it’s never wise to be indebted to anyone, let alone a stranger. But she refused to take them back and I could not afford to argue with her longer since I was already running late. So I took them and headed off down the road that led out of the village.

It was late in the afternoon by the time I arrived at Gran’s. She was at the door looking out for me, and greeted me with a broad smile and a kiss.

“Lollygagging at the market again, I see,” she teased. “No doubt mooning over the baker’s son.”

“Gran, there are better ways for me to spend my time.”

She gave a little snort of disapproval as she ushered me inside. “What better ways? Sticking your face in a book or gallivanting about looking for faeries in the forest? You’re not a child, anymore, Rosalind. You had best turn your thoughts to snaring a good husband before it’s too late.”

I bit back a heated retort and sat down heavily upon one of her sturdy kitchen chairs. The air was warm from the stove that had been busy all day and filled with the fragrance of anise. Gran didn’t notice me stewing in silence. She blithely went on exhorting the virtues of all the various young men who lived within twenty miles of the village as she pulled a pan of biscuits out of the oven and set them on the counter to cool.

Fortunately for her, I love my grandmother even more than I despise this talk of husband hunting, or else I would not visit her so frequently. She brings it up nearly every time I see her now. It certainly doesn’t help that both of the Costa sisters have announced their betrothals, and Lydia is nearly a year younger than I.

Which is all well and good for them, but I can’t bring myself to think about marriage. Not just yet, anyway, and certainly not to the baker’s son! His eyes are far too close together and his laugh is like the braying of a drunken ass. I would sooner fill my pockets with stones and throw myself in the river than tie myself to _that_ for the rest of my days.

We sat at her kitchen table and she gave me warm milk to accompany the fresh biscuits. I unpacked my basket and showed her the persimmons. She just wrinkled her nose and _tsk-tsked_ me for wasting my mother’s coin (although she did try a nibble at my urging, and I grinned to see her lose the sour look upon her face).

It was dark by the time my thoughts turned to home. There was still plenty of time before supper, but the light fails so early this time of year. I said my goodbyes to Gran and took up my basket, which she had filled with eggs from her hens.

“Stay to the road, Rosalind, there’s a good girl. You needn’t fear the dark upon the road, but don’t you stray into the forest!”

I assured her that I wouldn’t and off I went.

This is where the story takes an evil turn, and I do not like to think of it at night with the wind howling among the eaves as it is. I shall tell the rest in the light of day tomorrow when my nerves have recovered.

_November 2, 18—_

I am stealing a few moments this morning while my mother makes her deliveries. I don’t know why I was so sensitive about this last night. I feel rather foolish about it all now that the sun has caused my fears to shrivel up and blow away, as if they were no more substantial than dust and ash.

At any rate, I’m afraid I did not heed my grandmother’s warnings and ill fate came of it as she foretold. That evening I took a shortcut through the woods that I’ve used a thousand times before. I did not fear losing my way in the dark for I could find my way through that forest were I completely struck blind, I’m sure of it. But it was not so dark as that. The branches of the trees were all nearly bare of leaves with just a few dry stragglers rustling in the breeze, and the full moon shone through them to brightly light the way.

Still, as soon as I was out of sight of Gran’s house I became nervous in a way I had never been before, jumping at every strange noise and shadow. The skin on the back of my neck prickled and itched, and I kept turning to make sure there was nothing following me.

“It’s just your imagination, silly!” I said aloud, though I did not sound too convincing. I marched along, humming to myself to keep up my spirits and my nerve.

Not long after that I heard a loud crack behind me, as if a large twig had been snapped in passing. I whirled around but could see nobody as I gazed into the shadows between the trees.

“Hullo!” I called out, waiting several beats of my hammering heart for an answer that I hoped would not come. “Who’s there? Anybody?”

I stood still for a long minute, but heard nothing beyond the usual noises of a wood at night. I laughed to try and quiet the beating of my heart. It was probably just a squirrel or something that had startled me, I reasoned. Even so, my agitation grew though there was no reason for it that I could see.

I began to walk more quickly, and then to run.

I was nearly home when it happened, close enough to just make out the red light of the kitchen window peeking between two trees. A flash of silver caught my eye and something knocked me down. The basket I was carrying flew from my hand and I hit the ground hard. There was a horrible snarl and the wolf – for wolf it was! – grabbed hold of my leg in its jaws. I screamed for the pain and terror of it. But the beast was gone just as quickly as it had come. Barely even aware of the burning pain in my leg, I scrambled up and ran as well as I could the rest of the way home.

I barreled up the steps and through the door, closing it fast and bolting it behind me. My mother was thankfully nowhere in sight. The pantry door was open, though, and I heard sounds of her rummaging about. I quickly drew some water and brought it with me into my room and shut the door. I filled a basin and drew out a kerchief. My hands shook as I dipped it into the water, then pulled up my skirts to examine the wounds. The fabric had been rent and torn, and there were rivulets of mostly dried blood down my leg. I dabbed lightly at the puncture wounds – four of them – with an ugly bruise coming up between them.

“Rosalind! Supper!” mother called.

“Just a minute!” I called back. I let my skirts fall to cover the wounds again and then glanced in the mirror. It was a good thing I did, for my hair was a disheveled mess and there was dirt smudged across my cheek. I wiped it away and drew a comb through my hair, then stood for a few moments more to collect myself before daring to join my mother at table.

I hurried out and sat down quickly so that she would not see me limp. She looked at me with red-rimmed eyes as she dished out some stew into my bowl.

“How is your grandmother?”

“Oh, fine. Very well. She was perfectly fine when I saw her.”

“Did you bring her everything I asked you to get at market?”

“Yes, turnips and greens and all. I certainly did.”

Mother didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary about my nervous babbling. In fact, she barely looked at me at all. Her tired eyes were cast upon the bowl in front of her as she slowly ladled the contents of it to her lips.

I idly wondered if she would ask about the eggs and my heart skipped a beat. The eggs! I had lost the basket with the eggs when I fell. I hoped and prayed she would not mention it tonight. As I was scheming about how to slip out to go retrieve it, mother suddenly cast a stern look upon me. 

“You didn’t come through the woods, did you?” she asked.

I swallowed hard. “No,” I said, trying to keep my voice both steady and sincere. “I came by the road, of course!”

“I thought I heard someone yelling just before you came in. Did you hear anything?”

“Nothing,” I lied. “Unless it was the screech owl I heard as I turned into the lane.”

We ate the rest of our meal in silence. Afterwards, I cleared the table and did the washing up, then retired early to my room. I checked my leg again, worried about some infection setting in. The area around the wounds was a slightly less angry shade of red. It still hurt terribly, though.

I went to bed with the intention of rising early to find the basket of eggs before my mother woke and inquired about them the next morning.

And I shall have to leave the tale there for I hear my mother returning.

_November 3, 18—_

One good thing about my continuing nightmares: they woke me before the sun had even risen. Even so, I could hear the sound of my mother already astir in her room. I jumped out of bed and quickly dressed, then crept ever so quietly to the front door. The plan was simple, just slip out, retrace my steps, find the basket and come home. Mother would be none the wiser, unless they were all broken (which was a real possibility considering how hard I fell).

I opened the door and stood, staring. There was the lost basket, sitting on the porch! Which was strange enough, but even more than that, when I rummaged inside I found not a single egg had broken!

Looking about in the half-light of dawn produced no answers to this mystery, so I took the basket in and set it in the kitchen for mother to find. Before I could sneak back into my room, she emerged from her own.

“You’re up early, Rosa.”

“Mmm hmm. I thought I’d get breakfast started.”

“That would be very helpful, thank you,” she said and kissed me on the cheek.

After breakfast I found a moment to examine my wounds again. They had scabbed over completely and hardly hurt at all anymore. Why, it was only a few scratches – nothing at all to be so worried over! I think now that fear had probably made the beast seem greater than it really was. In fact, it was probably just a dog and not a wolf at all. I shan’t even think about it again.

_November 6, 18—_

The dreams still come nightly, but the unknown beasts that pursue me have since been replaced by wolves.

_November 9, 18—_

The friendly woman who had given me the persimmons was at the market again yesterday. I learned her name is Celene, and that she was born in the south and travels about the countryside selling her wares here and there, wherever she pleases. This time she had a young man with her with shaggy dark hair and the same feral sort of smile. I wonder if they’re related. She only introduced him as Raul, so I’m not at all sure. He is a quiet sort and rather shy; he said not a word and barely seemed able to look me in the eye the entire time I was there.

I had saved a few pennies by skimping on the mushrooms I’d been instructed to buy, and so I was able to finally pay her back. But when I offered her the coins she shook her head emphatically and refused to take them.

“Oh no, child. You needn’t worry about that.”

“But I insist! I promised to pay you later, and I am true to my word.”

After much cajoling she finally allowed me to press the coins into her palm. When I did so, her fingers wrapped around my hand and held it. Her skin was so warm, as if she’d just been warming herself in front of a brazier. I hadn’t even realized how cold my own hands were until that moment. She held my gaze and smiled. I felt the heat rise in my cheeks and my breath hitched.

“I…I really must be going now,” I said, though I made no move to pull away.

“Stay awhile longer. I’ll tell you about the time Raul and I tricked some bandits on the east road.”

To be honest, I wanted nothing more than to stay. Celene’s tales of travel and adventure appealed to me far more than listening to Gran go on about whose prospects looked brightest, the farrier’s apprentice or the baker’s son. But I was in earnest to get home before dark, and so I made my apologies.

“I’m sorry, but my grandmother’s expecting me, and I’m running late already.”

She gave my hand a little shake before letting go. I promised to come again another day to hear her stories, and she nodded, bidding me farewell until then.

My visit with Gran was pleasant enough. She chatted on about potential suitors and the weather and her aching joints, though I was distracted and barely contributed beyond a few nods and _you don’t says_.

I started to get a bit anxious as the afternoon wore on, and decided to cut this visit short so I could be on my way before nightfall. As I was leaving, Gran gave her usual warning about staying on the road, and of course I agreed. Once I was out of sight of her house, however, I turned into the trees.

I was so angered by my own timidity that I forced myself to take the shortcut again, reasoning that in daylight there was certainly nothing to fear. I met nothing but a few squirrels along the way, and arrived home without incident.

Later as I lay in bed, the sound of a wolf howling in the distance kept my slumber at bay long into the night.

_November 13, 18—_

Today I sat with Celene and listened to her stories while Raul tended the stall. If only my life could be more like hers! She’s been just about everywhere, and has met the most interesting people. I could listen to her all day.

And I nearly did. The afternoon got completely away from me and I had to scramble to the butcher’s to buy bones for broth before he closed up shop. By the time I got there he was out of all but oxtails. Gran wasn’t happy with the substitution or my explanation for it. (I may have put the blame on the butcher’s paltry stock rather than my own irresponsibility.)

I have become such a liar of late. It leaves a bitter taste on my tongue, yet I do it still.

My visit with Gran was unremarkable, though the walk home was not. The success of my previous journey emboldened me to take the forest path at night once again. Foolish, perhaps, but I would rather live as a brave fool than have fear rule my every choice and action.

As it turned out, it was a terribly foolish thing to do, though fortune was with me this time and I came out of it unscathed.

There is a place about a quarter of the way between Gran’s house and home where the trees are thickest and the path meets another that winds up from the old mill road. Just as I came upon this crossroads, a silver wolf stepped out from the trees onto the mill road path. I froze in place, hardly daring to breathe, as we regarded each other in perfect silence.

It was a she-wolf I think, sleek and powerful, but not nearly as large as my fear addled memory had made her out to be (if it was indeed the same animal that had accosted me nearly a fortnight ago). Still, she was not a sight I was glad to see in the forest alone at night.

I’m proud to say that I kept my wits about me this time. When the wolf advanced, I stood my ground.

“No!” I cried. “Stay back!”

To my utter surprise, the wolf halted and sat down! All I could hear was my heart pounding in my ears as I walked past, giving her a wide birth. She merely watched me, sniffing the air as I went by.  I continued on down the path (without running for I did not want to spur her to the chase). She got up to follow, and I admit I was unnerved. I kept glancing back every few steps, but she never came closer than a few yards. She trailed behind me until we came to where the woods ended and my front garden began.

I ran across the open ground and took the steps up to the porch two at a time. When I gained the threshold and turned around, she was gone.

_November 27, 18—_

I would have thought it was my overactive imagination if it did not keep happening. I have traveled the wooded path by night a half dozen times, and each time my footsteps have been dogged by the she-wolf. Sometimes she is alone, but more often of late a smaller, sable-furred wolf accompanies her. They have become oddly familiar to me. In fact I often talk to them to pass the time as we walk, telling them all of the tales of my heart that my mother and grandmother would not care to hear. I am not so trusting as to let them too near, however. If they try, a stern word from me is enough to warn them off.

They still frequent my dreams as well, but even there they are not so frightening now. Perhaps losing my waking fear of them has helped calm my dreaming mind as well.

_November 29, 18—_

I spoke too soon about the dreams, for this morning I awoke from the worst one yet.  This night I was the hunter giving chase to small animals and devouring them, heedless of their tortured cries. It seemed so real; I could practically smell the iron tang of the blood filling my nostrils and hear the crunch of gnawed bones splintering.

I woke with a start and was amazed to find the bright light of morning filling the room. My relief was short lived, however, for when I kicked back the covers I found that I was completely naked! And that was certainly not the state in which I had entered my bed last night. More than that, my feet were black with dirt and the bedclothes were soiled with it. Turning to look around me, I noticed a smear of blood upon my pillowcase.

I got up and crept slowly to the mirror, dreading what else I might find. Hesitating for a moment, I finally got up the nerve to look and my eyes grew wide in disbelief. There were smudges of what looked like blood on my face, dried and crackled like bark, and a few brown leaves tangled in my hair.

I feared that this had been no dream at all. Quickly I dumped some water into the basin and scrubbed until my skin was raw – face, hands and feet. Fortunately, mother was gone for most of the morning, so I had time to compose myself before she saw me and ordered me once again to market for Gran.  

Celene was not at the market today, nor was Raul. But I hadn’t time to wonder about them, for the whole place was buzzing with the news of the kills. The butcher was inconsolable about the two goats that he had lost, and the widow Cori shouted loudly about the calf that had been run down in the field to the south of her cottage.

I hurriedly made my purchases and practically ran all the way to Gran’s. When I threw open the door and rushed inside, the place was completely empty.

I don’t know why, but not seeing her puttering about in the kitchen when I expected to sent me into a panic.

“Gran! Gran!”

I heard the back door slam and there she was, carrying an armful of potatoes. She set them down on the counter and wiped the dirt from her hands.

“Goodness, what’s all the shouting about?” she asked.

I ran to her and hugged her.

“Oh, Gran,” I said, “did you hear? Some poor animals were killed in the night. Ripped apart and left for dead, half-eaten in the fields!”

“Oh yes, I heard about that,” she said and sat me down at the table. “Some sort of animal attack. Dogs, maybe.”

“Or wolves?” I asked.

She put the kettle on and stoked the fire. “Aye, they’re about. That’s why I tell you, stay out of the woods at night!”

And tonight, at least, I did.

I shan’t write anymore now. I cannot even bear to think upon the meaning of it all.

_December 11, 18—_

Today when I arrived at market Celene pulled me into her stall with a mischievous smile. We sat before an upturned crate, upon which she placed a packet wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Imagine my disappointment when the packet was unwrapped to reveal a sizable calf’s liver, deep garnet in color and fresh from the butcher’s knife. I had thought it would contain something far more interesting – or at least, more appetizing. I’ve never cared much for liver, though of course I’ll eat it in a pinch.

Celene cut it up into bite-sized pieces, and then promptly popped one into her mouth.

“Oh, no! You can’t eat it raw. That’s just so…ugh!” I gave a little shiver of disgust, but she only laughed.

“Try it!” she urged, holding a piece under my nose.

The distinctive, muddy smell that I’d always found unappealing was now inexplicably making my mouth water. I took it, weighing my previous aversion with my current desire and making no real sense of the change. Celene and Raul watched me, their bright eyes twinkling with amusement.

Heaving a sigh of resignation, I relented.

“Oh, all right.”

I closed my eyes and tentatively placed the raw organ meat in my mouth. It was delicious! You know, the way even the simplest food is when you have been forced to go without for days. That first bite is always so rapturous, but this was even better!

Celene and Raul laughed and I joined in as well. The three of us sat telling tales for the next hour and eating the calf’s liver as if it were candy.

As far as other matters go, I have been minding my grandmother’s wisdom and staying clear of the woods at night. The men of the village hunted the culprits they thought were responsible for the killings for about a week, but with no success. General sentiment seems to be that it was a rogue wolf or two that had since moved on.

But I know better.

She is still out there, a pale ghost haunting the dark night. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of silver flitting through the shadows as I walk along on my way home. Her mournful howling fills me with a longing that would pull me right off the road and under the eaves of the trees if I let it.

I have been graced with one small blessing, though. The dreams have finally stopped.

_December 16, 18—_

I begin to rue my wish to lead a more exciting life. If the price of excitement is to always be danger and the threat of grievous harm, perhaps a quiet life is preferable.

Last night…oh last night! I stayed to the road as Gran instructed, but her faith in my guaranteed safety was sorely misplaced. There is a lonely stretch between the last cottage in the village proper and my own home. The woods draw close on either side and it is dark and desolate; I rarely meet any other soul traveling from that point on.

It was here I came upon an ox cart standing by the side of the road. At first I thought it abandoned, but as I passed by a figure emerged from the shadows round the back of it and startled me.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Little Red Riding Hood.”

It was Vincent, the farrier’s senior apprentice. I was relieved it was someone familiar to me, but irritated by my fright.

“My name is Rosalind, as you well know,” I snapped. “Please address me as such.”

“Oh, she’s a feisty one,” Another man, a fair bit older than Vincent, came walking out of the woods to join us. He was a stranger, though I had seen him about the village the past two weeks or so mostly hanging about the farrier’s or the tavern.  Even in so short a time he was able to establish an ill reputation, and I did not like the predatory look he gave me just then.

“Aye she is,” Vincent said, turning his head to spit. “It’s not right a young lady should travel alone at night. There could be robbers…or worse…lurking about.”

“Nonsense! There are no robbers here. I shall be perfectly fine. Good night to you!” I said and tried to be on my away.

Vincent stepped quickly in front of me, and the stranger gave a low laugh that set my teeth on edge.

“What sort of gentlemen would we be to allow that?” Vincent asked. “Step up into the cart; we’ll give you a ride.”

Although it seemed on its face to be a friendly offer, every sense I possessed warned against it. I backed away from him.

“Thank you, no.”

 “I said get in!” His voice by then had abandoned all semblance of friendliness.

He advanced on me, but before I could turn and run he’d grabbed me viciously by the arm. I cried out and struggled to free myself, but the two men only laughed as they dragged me to the cart.

Just then, two wolves – silver and sable – leaped out of the woods and bore down on us. There was a great commotion of snarling and shouting. I fell to the ground and crawled under the cart to escape the melee. One of the men aimed a kick and the sable wolf gave a great yelp. The wolves redoubled their attack, and in a moment the shouting of both men ceased.

I scrambled out from under the cart and ran all the way home without looking back.

_December 19, 18—_

This was the first time I had to venture to market again after my latest ordeal. While stopping at the butcher’s, I overheard him and the widow Cori discussing the mysterious disappearance of the farrier’s apprentice. Neither he nor his loathsome companion had been seen in the village since the night they accosted me.

“That friend of his had an ill look about him,” the widow Cori said, shaking her head. “And no manners at all, like he was raised by wolves that one.”

“Aye, if he throws his lot in with friends like that, he’s bound to meet a bad end…if he hasn’t already,” the butcher replied.

I listened to their talk but offered no information of my own. Instead, I made my purchases quickly and hurried to Celene’s.

There were a handful of customers milling about. When she saw me, Celene gave a friendly nod and then turned her attention back to a woman looking for advice on dried herbs for her rheumatism. Raul was there helping to wrap items as they were sold, though he did so with some difficulty. He held his right arm drawn in at his side as if it pained him.

I wanted so much to stay and talk to them, to tell them my harrowing tale since I would never tell mother or Gran for fear of worrying them to death.  But it seemed my friends were too busy to give me the audience I craved. I lingered there awhile longer, oddly stung by their lack of attention, before making my way to grandmother's house.

I had no thoughts of taking the road home that night. As soon as I left Gran’s I entered the woods, and shortly after the wolves joined me.  I didn’t speak to them this time. We simply walked together in silent companionship. The sable wolf lagged a bit behind, a slight limp hindering his gait. He would not allow me near enough to check for wounds, though the silver wolf did permit me to brush my fingers along the coarse fur of her back as we walked.

They saw me safely home as far as the wood’s edge. Regret nipped at my heels as I went inside and closed the door between me and the night.  

 _December 23, 18--_            

The dreams have returned, but the tone and tenor of them have changed. No longer am I the hapless prey being run down to near exhaustion, nor the bloodthirsty and soulless hunter. The woods are now my playground, and the wolves my playmates. And when I lie down with them, warm body to warm body, I feel a closeness and a sense of belonging that I’ve never really known before.

Alas, it is a stark contrast to my home life. I’ve been as restless as a badger in a trap, especially this past week. I can hardly sit still or keep my mind on my chores. Mother has threatened me with every consequence for my shoddy work to no avail. I just can’t seem to manage my temper or my patience anymore. Silence rules between us when we aren’t shouting at each other, marring what should be a festive season. I can barely stand to be in her presence now, nor she in mine.

The forest has become my refuge. I’ve been guilty of slipping out of the house every night once mother’s safe in bed. My wolf friends have begun to feel more like family to me. It is a thought that provides me both solace and unending grief.

_December 28, 18--_

I had a particularly vicious fight with my mother this morning which ended in me fleeing the house. I wandered deep in thought, hardly aware of the direction I was heading. Before I knew it I was at the door to Gran’s. She let me in and then rushed back into the kitchen to check the porridge that was bubbling away on the stove.   

I took off my cape and hung it on a peg by the door, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the opposite wall. Such changes did I see reflected in the image of my face that my mouth fell open in surprise. The features were my own, the shapes had not been altered at all. But there was a firmness to the set of my jaw and an obsidian hardness to my eyes that made me take a step back. I inched nearer to look more closely, only to see that my teeth seem to have grown both larger and sharper.

Gran came out from the kitchen with a cheerful, “Come along inside and sit down.”

I startled and whirled around, my hand covering my mouth.

She looked at me, worry creasing her brow. “Rosa, are you all right?”

“Oh, Gran!” I flung my arms around her and held her tight. “Everything’s changing. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me.”

“There, there,” she said, rubbing my back to sooth me. “Everyone feels that way at one time or another. You’re nearly a grown woman, and soon you’ll be a wife and then a mother. Of course that changes everything, but you’ll be all right.”

She didn’t understand. How could she know the dreadful choice that faces me? I am being steadily torn in two. These past few months I feel as if I have been leading a double life, and the gap between them grows daily. Of course I could explain none of this to her, so I just tearfully nodded and accepted the comfort she attempted to give.

If I were gone she would surely mourn. And mother would be inconsolable…for a time. But there would be one less mouth to feed, and maybe then she wouldn’t have to work as hard as she does now. She would finally be free to consider her own happiness for the first time in her life.

And were I to stay? With each passing year the walls close in around me. I am ill-suited to the only respectable pathways open to me, and I fear that if I were to take one of them – either marriage or the nunnery – it would kill my very soul.

Beyond all of those considerations lies the knowledge of what I am steadily becoming. I do not think I can stop it, even if I wanted to. If I remain here, I could pose a danger to my family and everyone around me. I cannot live with the weight of that on my conscience.

For good or ill I have made my choice.

When the full moon breaks the night and I hear the she-wolf’s call, I shall answer it.


End file.
